Monday, January 31, 2011


slayer, difficult and only mildly convincing pantomime
stand back for the pomegranate flashes:

chirr chirr 

salt’s sweat
broke the edges

of the beach’s old pawprint

a cold sweetness
with which you could grow new teeth

the ice cream truck stranded in zero time –

many many globs’
epic intake of helplessness

just so much dead man’s couch surfing
a green slick of time, curving over the edge

the bong sorcerer’s handfuls of it
devoted to movement inside the Plexiglas cell nucleus

stands on the first impression’s gear-shaped vector
(‘make a good one’)

handsome man
slaughterhouse Volkswagen

DIESEL infinity shower

she launches herself – with parts arranged
in taxonomies of nuclear physics–
in a vending machine;
submits her hot melting light bulb to rubberband symbiosis
with the moon’s speed

takes a certain delicious toll on:
Coke cans, Mars Bars, a tree toad sitting for years
in the dusty corner screaming at coins dropping
loudly from a leaf 

watch out it’s the Estonian frog stapler!
she shouts when the shadow of a hand passes over the leaf –
you don’t bind paper with it
you use the guts of green black red and yellow
innocents to run a filthy bath

‘this incinerator will totally refresh you,’ he says –
‘it models goose bumps and papaya breezes out of clay!’

she hauls out a shotgun
a hail of sharp sickly-beige suppositories 

still standing naked
the worst actor in the world looks like a
shiny polished cheese grater

the cold wet polythene shower curtain is still
the underground

only wall

Sunday, January 30, 2011


- the Taliban has invented a tampon with which to club baby seals

but really,
one of the Wonders
of the Deep
has to be Van Gogh’s

- not the helpful pussy

through existing on
the same

- as the sheers that cut the denim growing on my lawn

and the copycat
that jumps from
one mullet
to the next

- sheers in the rape van’s inbuilt little kitchen’s upper left cabinet 

in the left
pocket of
Inflatable Spiderman’s

- as a houseguest Rat Fink invariably feels like a traitor

worship acne
not being immodest
its pariahdom
quiet restrained house parties 

- demons use horse tranquilizers to desensitize themselves against
exorcists’ rude, quippy incantations

many a man
and woman
stepped through the Stargate
felt immense
self pity – and the need to pee

- a winsome smile is now stalwartly and imperviously guarding the Stargate 

Rat Fink’s profile page
on the singles website
is so alluring but
at the same time
so ghastly and louring,
a messily beheaded sun

- and then my girlfriend looked down and watched her cleavage resolve itself into fog

can be starved
with good behavior

- the same sheers, basically, imparted a strange shabbiness to my collar

as I try and try and try
to save everything everything EVERYTHING
by boiling it

- the spots in time can be countenanced with the facial pores of a large caliber revolver

time’s uprising –
does it make a sound?

- I have never seen so many thugs just lying around

usually so
busy on
Boxing Day

- and that’s when the ... the THINGS came out to test their toys...

everything’s OK
when you’re

- swingers boredly watching food network with cherry bombs set in the centers of panda eyes

after sustaining significant
blunt force trauma,

- every shop has its own method of showcasing stuff

Saturday, January 29, 2011


tourism sweeps through but then gets stuck, and after some days floats like a scoop of skin rash
gnomes on the mezzanine, setting out to raid Dolph Lundgren’s house – “the tremors of ADHD confound our little hands!”
decoding all the electronic trusses and brain devices and the grand iron lung in the corner of the sterile, minimalist living room

our multiverse is rough-hewn – “created in a flaw, old sport” – in the earth tones of Jabba the Hut’s kingdom
from its spelunking blow fewer spores; in its mouth I place a candle designed to crackle in tear gas
the prosthetics of some satellites scrape on the floor
though actually alive and well, the chaotic tangle of some signals’ desperation slowly merely unravel across the pillow

I’d like to be taken out snorkeling:
I’d like dorsal fins to slowly circulate the happy gibbering in the plastic pipe:
I’d like to know how deep the bleeding tooth is sunk in the pugnacious Slushpuppy
‘this multiverse of ours,’ Dolph Lundgren said one morning to his team of technicians – to no one in particular, ‘is rough-hewn, old sport’
Dolph Lundgren was the one who invented the term ‘old sport’

listen! on the roof! the patter of little feet –
oh my god the little clothes they’re wearing!

the collective malignity picked up off the carnival’s floor 
you will remember a pretty face better if you objectify it
it harks to your command, and is wearing a helmet 
of behavior modifying horns 

Friday, January 28, 2011


her favorite existence is the existence of the hectic colorful plaza’s Suicide Bug
death mixed with the atmospheric red of being rushed to the hospital
very loud and busy – the screech of a box cutter ricocheting gaudily through an empty warehouse

there are many forces behind the novelty catapult I’ve bought and placed around street corners to pummel unsuspecting victims with blunt splatty objects
Jane still wouldn’t catalogue them as carefully and lovingly as those that backed the creation of Edison’s waffle maker – which to this day tend to stick around, and are loud, they hair-raisingly convey the static yowling you sometimes hear along cold droopy East European telephone wires  

when Jane and I are out killing and raping and robbing, we at least agree on the concepts of:
a victim’s endurance measured according to the black yellow zigzagged timeline of a honeybee
souvenirs made of – and by – long dirty nails as reminders of death
ice-cream sticks as tongue depressors = beasts stranger, and more humiliating, than the motorized battering rams that traumatize the backs of heads

“your grandfather has been right all along about softcore,” Jane, perched like a gargoyle on an old stressed phone box on a wet dark quiet street – her slitty eyes scanning left and right – says

look closely at any type of numbness; does it care if God goes on vacation every once in a while?
does it mourn the fact that if sunspots could talk, they’d sound like Ed Hardy t-shirts?

the frightful possibility of not caring if actors and actresses are basically apathetic to the basic innate human need for more slime and gore – the death of the human spirit is NOT more orange wigs and plaited underarm hair;

the death of the human spirit is not the walking lysergic
the death of the human spirit is not the unstable holographic
the death of the human spirit are NOT the secret messages that crawl out of the snow on a continual basis...

messages that say: “choose your own goat”
messages that say: “what’s to prevent you from simply going into and spraying lewd messages on the walls of your own bathroom?”
messages that say: “what’s to prevent you from simply going in and decently using the clean wonderful restrooms of the Hive?”

messages that sometimes slightly contradict themselves

Thursday, January 27, 2011


quite fond of motel rooms and cannibals
something about a brown battered chair
undead waiting
the footsteps and the rattle of a key at the door
brown battered chair spliced with a tomb
sleeping with your eerie glowering consciousness
your mind’s version of sleeping naked
the room an oily meniscus on your glass eye held down by coarse stitches, a sleeping waiting putrescence
quite boring, actually 


kimono’s fused cephalopod
delusion’s mesh grate
embroidery’s fish scales

spinning small holes in the ground
a) traveling to a new country
b) a hideous fly accompanying you to the clinic

custom built crane bird
the whole mythos of the gas bottle
chugging down a stone’s throw

to the agoraphobe the claymation training montage
embodies the sincerity of biologic alchemy
captured individual embroidered bawdy

color-coded housekeeping, my fade prolapsed 
soy sauce impulse-control problem
test positive for Bollywood villainy

never thought I’d parlay with the devil
on the subject of paprika
puppet ruined your life

feverishly honing speech impediment
crushed by harp
fake new world with splinters

see world thru new fissure

oatmeal was just something we did

Wednesday, January 26, 2011


techno trapped under the bridge
from an earlier brain scan on the guru:
this neo cortex is just a step up
from that – what makes it so magical
are its flushed cheeks, and there’s some
kind of projection mapping going on,
a carnivorous thaw of
the windshield with the projection
of each pigeon footstep,
its tread hewing tense social frost

and a whole lot of magical squares
are placed unblinking on the burner,
in a desperate bid to guarantee
the handsomeness of the
Soviet front windshield

the wave of the mindset dry cleaned,
crashing in a cornucopia of plastic
voices, souvenirs of some sort of national
apology – a Tetris landfill; vast stinking
burnt L-shaped nappies, curiosities concealed
by the Sudoku-hunter, a glow-in-the-dark
map of their locations drawn by the magic
staffs of his pupils  

there’s a measure of controversy surrounding
the fan mail received by talking groceries:
their bodyguard is a self-centered android
who claims his beard saves lives – the mail
should be addressed to him, that’s all

he’s sulky, a kind of wolf that likes
all things recreational

Tuesday, January 25, 2011


a turd in the bath was all that was
left after Harry’s
tangerine dunk tank

participants reduced
to owl boluses
of penguin
this was by
now already
a trite pleasure

Burger King’s
slurping circuit

I’d been
I didn’t
know what
creature my
luggage –
held back in
the ether – had,
a la ‘The Fly,’
been turned

a limping
sensory punch
in the conflation
of jawbone
dead phone
circus epilepsy
with wet

seahorse sequins
surfacing from
a bed of
got better things
to do
than to glow

the relaxed
pieces of bicycles
during that
lull before
the fat child
stepped hard
on the

“transcontinental luggage rewiring” –
the ghost kept
whispering in the teleportation

I had seen
a tie hatching
a dinosaur’s
bust, its lips
around feathered

hailed from:
he didn’t

I said there were worse things
to fear

Monday, January 24, 2011


(stale old crispy dead used-up anti-depressant effervescence on cold steel mirror-like synapse) (low-profile tire explosion’s soda symphony in the middle of a puddle) (neural spaghetti pervaded by bad intelligent cadet-like spatula-headed sometimes-kind traffic lights)

(after party aftermath a veritable Swiss cheese doomsday) (opium mildness had at the last minute stolen the show) (many zombie parts dragged behind a retreating form)  

(neighbor explaining things to angelic bacteria) (fondling their shady weight) (followed by boring exegeses on librarian morality...) 

(moss tailoring dreams up green fluffy inflatable sex toys prancing around trees sporting afro omelets of chipmunk throw-up)

(female corpse sitting on old tree’s gnarly grandfatherly root) (the price of retrieving the hype from the Deathstar vault) (homemade homely toaster oven boob job) (the creak of medieval webcam hinges)

(the interesting ways hemorrhoids can be grafted on ice) (it was the dead of winter) (capital punishment’s eccentric mascot) (the influence behind flared trousers) (thru the cleanest lens ejaculation mistaken for a prank) (gringo foam at gunpoint)

(board games) (bone-rattling munchies) (supine bacon puzzles) (hahahahaha!) (“writing in tentative lowercase to the caps lock strangler”) 

(fugitive insights) (dominatrix multi-tasking on the flaming roaring bouncing makeup chair) (becoming one with everything thru mastery of multi-tasking) (a voice that traveled in all directions like a fan disintegrating) (the end of causation is at hand – as soon as I learn to do everything at the same time with the same skill and focus and love that I can fix this toaster in my lap”)

(all artists construction workers doctors teachers street sweepers pimps trapeze artists advertising executives bellboys cabbies astronauts bloggers wigmakers suitors deadbeats idle nosepickers saints perverts look askance at appliance) (toast has no warranty)

Sunday, January 23, 2011


after this treatment, you can ask me anything backwards
the odds are good, backwards must apply to someone
so while it’s obvious everything can be repaired, everything is still broken
Ferris Bueller action figures can not be repaired
everything can be visualized backwards
visualizing the toothless McDonalds
visualizing the George Clooney hockey bra
and you can smoke everything
cigarettes are laryngeal mittens
and everything is a terrible idea
an execution televised backwards makes everything living a bad idea
a unicorn is a terrible idea
Sunday Blues is a terrible idea
exploration of the contraption of everybody’s contraption 
exploration of the bowling alley’s smooth wooden serviette unfurling its vacuum suction pinecone-hurling
exploration of the contraption of my language’s testicles
Mandarin’s WWF contraption
exploration’s onslaught tricking subject of exploration into inelegance
gang rape dressing room isolated from reality
the Babylonian side of the earring isolated from reality
that which is hard to visualize’s terrible isolation from reality
that which is expensive to repair’s isolation from reality 
sputnik low-hanging banana pants open sore’s isolation from reality 
pickup truck’s bad anatomy’s isolation from reality

Saturday, January 22, 2011


pressureless head, eyes, nose, lips, ears
a pizza on the table with no opinions, with no compression to speak of
one can easily imagine it coasting safely through a roadblock
right at this moment certain vitamins are leaking lazily from the curb outside
do not think of this medical device as a tank, even though it is – think of it more as a comfortable chair, in which you can sit and lose all sense of location
o lovely bedpan – upended in symbolic protest against solipsism
have you seen me set fire to my jumper yet?
crawling out of baked skin there’s no known earthly compatible feeling
amazing blindfold passage through Arizona’s crabfoot geometry
poncho abduction: spaceman artificial fever tested on gruesome curtains of sweatshirt
in a wheelbarrow laughing clapping on my back head thrown back mouth agape slowly meeting the tiger smile – aiming secretly with clear head
in a pomegranate politely requesting a window to be opened
Velcro bodysurfing from the cabinet of curious dusty antediluvian antibiotics drained from frog warts and chicken eyes 
a youngish apocalypse still not recovering from those grisly formative years
i don’t need the bitchingest Pavlovian guitar lick to trigger interest in a pizza this mindbogglingly weightless 
the world’s digital artwork’s watermark had never tasted so good
meringue as placebo’s most important ingredient
canoe jaw as sign of intelligence – smart enough to be the brain that encrypted the ukulele
the brain dreamed up by the fireman on his lunch break

Friday, January 21, 2011


this is a fun guide to finding the neon hair tips
a documentary about the tropical floorboard shuffle of every parkour eunuch
time spent in the wonder nap – that cross between a wonderful nap and a Bar-One powernap – in which a procrastinator may breathlessly catch up with extinction
this is a diagram illustrating how every yoga neophyte flows through the danger zone like a piece of stuffing

I’d recommend considering ourselves on a kind of journalistic picnic on the pubic plateau, one with all the atmosphere of R.E.M. couch smell

here are some disturbing pictures of a bedbug foaming at the mouth; later we can study some rape scenarios and a few before/after shots of the healing in progress under the grocery aisle’s sunken Band Aid
but let’s laugh for a while at the fate of some deleted douchebag troops;
in fact I’d like to digress a bit to contemplate the World War II chin that gets mad at me

this is just a minor setback, folks
the pole dancer’s silk glands have their personal reasons for spinning an opaque web in front of our cameras
drivers take note: sexy improv stops being funny with the wrong twist of a steering wheel

if you haven’t guessed by now, I specialize in the form of self-promotion you can only pull off via the medium of the spraypaint memoir, merchant of genetic clues to the vestigial eyelid
I am the Self getting from point A to point B in the slowly migrating whiplash

Thursday, January 20, 2011


The toothbrush is sort of a local legend. The entanglement of Catwoman’s bulimia with her favorite feather – on screen: each gag reflex tickle, each warped restroom echo, is given a Portuguese subtitle – and in some countries the squeak of a thrift store pterodactyl. 

Now the fart in the overlord’s hazmat suit expires slowly, leaving in his mouth a taste as strange as the guilt damming up in his cheeks – every inch of his pursuit turns on a Kim Jong-il Styrofoam sneaker.

Allergic: ever heard of a healthy Nazi allergic to his own vices? Killing is like suicides spun in their own direction, the happiness people died for: yeah, not private – in fact as private as the moon’s mechanical love grin.

A match thrown into my grave. My grave’s absorption of the inflammable plague. And yet poof – yeah, POOF! goes the sprawling inventory of Batman’s wiles, except I don’t take them to the grave. I’m reduced to being a gentleman in my failure. I’ll tell you who I am, Batman – I’ll tell you why me and my feline companion get sick whenever we eat out. I am the single-celled Nazi. A six-foot deep sideshow of corduroy amoeba and cognac mustache. 

Ah, Batman – you hate me, I know; but dear God you’d love this one, you’d really dig, and at once find intensely ironic, the self-description of my accomplice in crime: “I am the eight-foot-six Pharaonic Barbara Streisand volleyball giant – ZWANGO!”

Fucking hell, man. I’m so bored – crash-testing, out of plain morbid curiosity, pretty expensive baubles. My precious stationery; I’ve become a stationery collector, did you know? “Sink your teeth into that inane xerox. Now lick your lips, O terrifying stapler.” Ah ... anyway. So as I was saying, after coming back from restaurants, me and my girlfriend – d’you know we need merely vacate our chairs in order to trigger a mudslide?

But to come to the point: I can bash your fucking head in with my girlfriend’s toothbrush.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011


the moons and cirrus formations of other planets are good
their sunrise in its skiwear minus two bright, fraying snakebites
the base sincerity of their dorm rooms
our slutty Lacrosse upper crusts, on the other hand

down here superheroes pick from all the best bits of the woolly mammoth
but weeds cloud the sky with their caffeinated swing
street handcuffs are the genius of trash
very quickly, acceptance is growing for car service cults
I believe that when the shiver has died, you’ll know that yogurt is real

aim for the lid, people – if you’re afraid your pee stream might tattle on you
but the Vatican is closed on Thursdays
the heartfelt miniskirt leaves its blinker on past three off-ramps – a welcoming touch to geriatrics
after the nanotech snowflake has fallen from the dirty sky on the open vein in my neck, I am prepared to believe in and become a practitioner of immortality’s squeamishness
it has been approved of by the mentally ill soprano – singing about feeling the guitar blisters on prehensile entropy 

‘could a dose of inspiration perhaps be derived from this Nerf gun, General Sir?’
‘Private! – bitter tragedy confronted with folded arms leads to further, unimaginable trouble!’
now raising a truncheon and beating itself to death, the neediest calorie in the nun’s bottom perishes realizing that to be too often prostituted is not an option
occasionally go out for a walk, under the weird sky’s moons 

Tuesday, January 18, 2011


Or did you not possess the pocket calculator’s metermaid vocabulary Or were you in that mob not wrapped in a sociable blanket Or do you not think loneliness rhymes with hanky Or weren’t you also in your early thirties hanging around the beehive at Farmer’s Market, the temple of dangerous teens And was the shadow not cast by a mind rotating And weren’t you getting very close to the edge of the swimming pool And didn’t Beyonce frogmarch across your wire and subsequently trip it

Or was this not in fact the nerd sex cardboard creepfest Or could it have been the country-folk record I’d so desperately looked for in Jurassic Park Or does fried chicken hunt in packs Or might my hand (the one that writes funny, the left one, the one that basically can’t write) not be linked to magic Or has it already started, the chewing by which I am constantly surrounded And could this be the whore’s first day knitting NASCAR jerseys And how jam-packed is the meth-head’s head really, with asthma baptism’s crazy sleep gasses Or will you miss the emergency call because you have been too irritated and distracted and sort of enamored of a sequined ferret And how did your fingers look after giving the mobile apothecary a valet, and have your wits subsequently been reclining carefreely on some distant marvelous shore

And would your soul’s little stunt sit well with porn folk And had you been orphaned by a shrug And/or would they slobber on your untimely death

Monday, January 17, 2011


i’d shuffled it over into new mental skin – in a time when the big bang theory encompassed the cigarette tetrahedron – those toasty late 90’s – my memory bouncing softly in a roomful of plumage – i had bare-chested touted a flamethrower under the shitty motel awning – when the fire-passion’s common sense still was – roaring drunken assault overacting – eyebrows in a love boat amateurishly singed – for i had radicalized my buckshot a hundred percent – and all that will remain in the crematorium is my coconut hair and shoulder icing – under the sea the fluffy compost of flesh already visible – the revolution’s stench hacksawed with barricade floss – they ran away quite ridiculously:

who doesn’t want to be part of a speed-walking success story?

don’t be glum about the tight waters

the flood fly’s beautiful peeping downward spiral

my culinary crimes condensed into one gaping detox rupture

oh boy you need to hear a visitor’s weight on the hummus mat

my is flight delayed between toespaces

Sunday, January 16, 2011


coded stars notorious for potatoes
poignantly embracing piglet
mammoth curry leading from handsomest crying
nematode superstar sperm brain thinks blank
snail elbow in cloud rubber
passes into heaven’s lap dance
that cabaret doofus up there
great need carpeted for pleasure
to coast quickly through superhumans


fascinated with hunger grim
footprint departure of Batmobile
now is prescient crystal meth
hot horizon even with the sound down
funerals take out the trash
RIP make-believe
not very scary atmosphere
shoveling driveway lesser-known
fisherman oatmeal an hour airborne
as complex munchy silhouette
allowed to crave more cow noodles
roaming catnip unlocked
cool blue impressed Spock button
the sore yellow picket fence impression
less trustworthy is in my blood
complimentary linoleum foot tattoo
mallet down on sleeping peacefully
roar in overnight bag
hobo hiking supplies
or ennui pining troll
collapsed laughing so hard
dabbling in going all möbius
and there’s just no room for a pineneedle
a swagger blames Lego genitals
my high mind showers under the chandelier bong
and I don’t try taming a slab of Beatles

Friday, January 14, 2011


a little while after finding out that the Sudan had been named after pores and blackheads –
it was supposed to become the mainstream of catharsis
the idea was to be an oasis where looting was relevant again
I could not accept how kidnappings passed through the drywall

the arrow did not fly straight in the miscegenation of identities
the arrowhead became disconnected and rammed on its own through the cereal box
information we have on the kidnap victim’s awesome party –
one side in the other side out, the disembodied movement typical of messageboard Pong

well now I will tell you upfront that with my personal collection of sandwiches I feel positively indestructible
where have we heard that before?
oh yeah: it was in the lot of an auto dealership, the sun was bending the hoods of cars backward like surly upper lips
‘I believe it would now be a good time to put on our lapel pins – the time feels just so right to start railing hard against Subaru drivers...’
the mood was solemn, like it is in all civilized countries

the death penalty is given a tasteful Malibu theme
my wife’s fateful run-in at the supermarket with the wedding dj – part-time she is a policewoman given to front-lawn loitering – this is a woman about whom I had often had incredibly sanctimonious reveries in bed nailing her in an act of extreme conjugal politeness to the headboard 

‘flashing marathon runners is a very rude act,’ my wife warned her acidly
women sometimes try to embody stereotypes of gangland boredom
amid wheat downpours looking at the mouth-watering porcelain
screaming how alien mouthwash tastes so excellent

fetal alcoholism’s umbilical cord is a wobbly telephone wire –
in psychoanalysis you’re in your phlegm Snuggie, communicating via a telephonic drool strand with someone on the other side of the planet
on the housekeeper’s boar tusk you’re a hunchbacked T-shirt –
you’re dreaming about a dreamless hibernation not in, but skillfully aligned with, a booming washing machine

a scavenger that edited its loot by inserting interesting spaces
a pissing sculpture running away from a semblance of its original –
its marrow is Marmite and the decomposing/burning of a fat satiated tick
the originality so feared: a crocky tomato crate

you cannot fight evil, I’ve told my congregation – because the Death Star’s gambit of moving its dust under a florescent light is brilliant and deceptive
I have bellowed at them many times: it does not tempt or dare you!
it beckons!
clearly you’re on the road to becoming a very well-spoken saint

what a blighted and empty place needs is a fusillade of smooth black choral –
blasting down from heaven like an emergency celebrity faceplant
it would feel its cheeks puff out –
it would feel its pants drop in lurid light: renewable fuel

the Dobby abides –
the Dobby is a glansular breast rat of hermaphroditic wood –
the Dobby is the most skillful belly dancer ever
the whole of Sudan’s population consists of one flaky carbuncle

Thursday, January 13, 2011


the scientist’s fingers are full of lab-grown tissue instead of sandwich spread trying to engage it in a jaunty ventriloquist act, half-human meat on fingers now all burnt out after hours of unsuccessful audition brutal iteration negative training blaming 

you’re going to be half a brain one day one lucky person is going to have to have half of his or her brain augmented you’re going to inhabit his or her skull be nice to the other half that was unfortunate enough to have lost its other hemisphere in a rodeo accident kay?

the tissue is discarded after much brooding and goodbyes it is but a dirty frumpled half-bloody dumpling under a bus which had rolled there after being insouciantly tossed into the street by the passing scientist after much fanfare and goodbyeing and brooding and like got picked up some seconds later by a boy whose mother dresses him in girl’s clothes it will get a new head its new head with be the best-dressed kleenex box on the boy’s windowsill it will not be creepy or obscene

a strange bone behind its oval trepan breather hole censors every vowel spoken by friends of the boy and by the boy’s parents and by the boy himself grammar’s quixotic gapmouth is ascribed by the god this kleenex box prays to at night to a hoax played on the papery speech centers of the brain by the god the brain in the box prays to him/herself interestingly

the borg is after the blood vessels of every banjo in fargo a thing after which the boy himself is actually also and but so the boy is actually after the same thing as the borg it will now seem: the fluty tubes of the larger banjo body corporate, when extracted and sutured to a new nervous system, will infuse a convincing type of gung-ho and zest into that storefront phenomenon in vogue at present – a satisfactory substitute for the traditional expressionless mannequin – i.e. the voluptuous spine resting upright on the small pink cushion that on closer inspection turns out to be a prostate gland another creation of the scientist instead of ventriloquism it had mastered the technique of appearing tall and domineering it veritably looms on its squat plush prostatic jewelry box pillow it does not need glamorous steel stilts to make it sexy for example

oh but the vicious mercenary borg will clean out the hapless fargoan houses of banjos much quicker than the boy would ever hope to he needs only one banjo and one spine and one prostate gland to stick in underneath his cognizant prettily adorned kleenex box he will hate the borg for the rest of his days with a fervor bordering on hysterical for not notifying him at least of their similar ambitions for not providing at least some sort of human decent sportsmanly headsup  

the fact that the boy’s mother dresses him in girl’s clothes is another story

Wednesday, January 12, 2011


my perfect future, in a rubble of fortune cookies
warning signs not seen by the high-flying
who wants his or her cocoon reattached?
so receptive to every action and particle, swishing sensory deluge
engulfed at every car wash in vulva
hassles will control your mind
expertly weaving possession 
a bad track record as mere platonic entities
this is a defining moment for public masturbation
being with you as a rule attended by fire alarm in sign language
detailed image of fine suspicious stirring of dandruff on power steering – usable clues about magnetic romance navigation
bill making it legal to keep a smoking gun in a shoebox glovebox GPS snuffbox
en route at every stop clear indications of Government restrictions on growth of fluff on ATMs
practice a chopsticks kind of witchcraft, baby
kinks are common in paper towels
fluffy ATMs are inhuman, after all
a bear is tearing me apart sweetly 
what with death’s irrational connection to Zoo confectionary
So, the evolution of lettuce in saunas...
still hungover: Please buy me this fancy kit with stone tools and guidebook on how to shorten my life
a wearable canoe cannot possibly make you drought-tolerant
do not suggest to anyone to foster dreams pervaded by the lights and blips and chimes of katexic game shows
in a sore throat swimsuit
shirttail in trouble
your brain after running down a long dark alley infested with feline rapists   
starting to see the world in higher resolution:
a pony with a bowl haircut:
rapist turned rapper
train your sink to swallow necklaces, to become the face-shaped bath at the end of a scream’s travel path
what does childhood joy amidst domestic violence mean?
pokemon propellant
the lost obscure lithograph that contained some rare Tintin boobage
necklace travel path
voodoo lens flare in baking soda

Tuesday, January 11, 2011


people jump to horrible conclusions when I make Freudian slips
I don’t know –
all I know is that I have an excellent webcam voice
behind me at the end of a receding tunnel is a toupee shrine, hairy and elephantine, rhythmically inhaling and exhaling carpet dust
I am a shark fin with a flawed spray-on tan
a burger with a smiley face fingered into it – dry, polystyrene dough: anciently porous
it’s on days like this that I can sniff out luggage containing Lady Gaga’s E. Coli vibrator
I have prominent knees
my socks are secured to my ankles with toothpicks  
going outside like this may raise influenza risk
a mule asteroid bringing all sorts of new and terrible goodies to Earth
I am sometimes terrorized by my reading glasses sliding off my nose
VEGAS: we are not alone
GENE POOL: leave me the fuck alone
I am on a boat. For realsies.
from here I can see the black, humped, furtive ninja migration:
it’s supposed to be a secret, but with so many, how can they remain hidden?
like a wale’s back diving slowly across the cityscape
the Earth’s crust is supercharged with conspiracy
a large building over there actually just now vomited
corporate emesis
slinking past a pauper assemblage, who themselves are merely ninjas in disguise 
inflammatory Thai massage – the vulgar nudging exploitation of a frog
dry-humping a sports bra until it turns shiny and dings like a tambourine, whose shape it now actually resembles
Hell finally caught up
in order to have reprieve you must train sleep to drill a hole through the back of your head
don’t swim in any Vegas swimming pools
some people’s voices aren’t so good over a webcam 
deceased rhino antimatter
eerie baldness: the mirror a serial killer holds up to us
the electronics of my apartment has just now actually perfected the humidifier’s parabola 

Monday, January 10, 2011


the tiny inhabitants of time, of the spaces in clothes and between skin cells, said in their ancient bacterial dialect: ‘control your silicon’
a sense of movement is obtained in the apartment through Tetris wall fixtures
jubilation is the only emotion that can’t be measured with special accelerometers – because it is not a human emotion
‘Forbidden Planet’ is explained with a laser pointer
a jarring young intern is always at one’s side
there are beautiful formations of brain drainage you can only simulate with old-fashioned experiments, or else with the loosening of a belt
in some photos one can clearly see Sasquatch kicking crap
we do similar things when not thought to be observed 
in the store today I saw the new model grandparent ankle monitor
the sight of security cameras intoxicates me
I like it when animals attempt to flee farms
I like the low frequency of panic attacks in pornography
I will turn my back on a caged lion as a dare
growing up is a severe challenge: don’t try it at home
in moments of extreme boredom, I try to manipulate the shapes of my intestines with my mind
inadvertently I developed the metabolism of a croissant – but that was from visiting the same cafeteria on an overly excessive basis
the twisted, tapering shape of vaguely glutinous gas forming from sitting on the same chair in the same corner by the window on an unhealthily regular basis
the warm reception I’ll receive when reaching old age will be finely and densely annotated
my eyes won’t be good enough to read the horde of footnotes and headers
the warm reception I’ll receive after landing with a parachute in the middle of a football field will confuse/terrify me
the eroding ceasefire of reality
what would it take my hamster to stick to a strict exercise regimen?
my penis when erect is frigid
deriving unplanned inspiration to do great things and become a person of high standing from the oblivious activities of monochrome figures on security monitors showing the lobby of the hotel
flexibility attained only via extremely erratic behavior
the great Charlie Chaplin had wanted his birth in stop-motion origami

Sunday, January 9, 2011


‘choke him, choke him, choke him!’ all the Rice Crispies on the bed chant to the single Rice Crispie lodged in the Hoover vacuum cleaner’s mouth

bedsores full of static

a cobbled, novelty garden feature shaped like a sick person

a tenfoot shadow broke in last night

organic veggie coloring book for the bored ill

you will only show your ass when you’re dead

wake me up when death’s pimple crosshairs on the air mattress have turned cloudy

the fountains should be of the purest air

so yes, I want a germ-free Uzi to finish me off

don’t tell me not to eat in bed

Saturday, January 8, 2011


Grocery store puke is boss. Smells like what the cloistered wear. I’m so much better than you. A controversy which is not a great name for a goat, rather a controversy which is sunny side up. Center of attention. Tree rings imitated my slogans. What legroom is left for anybody else on earth is filled with the inaccuracies of castration. If ever I left my wallet in the car, it would cry out to me in the voice of James Earl Jones for my return. Getting nuked would equal an uneventful seizure to me. I have many funny names for getting nuked. And for getting laid.

corruption contest WON BY LOVE
on a quest for nexus of PANTY LINER
pussy chapstick CHAIN-SMOKING
heathens jostled BY THE UNSPEAKABLE
girl with pigtails has been ON TO ME

Throughout recorded history, several times the sad tale of the technician has come up. He wanted to design a clean machine. Cleaning products came back in business almost at the same time his machine was placed, with much fanfare, on every street corner. The irony of this is still lost on historians. The words spoken to the Indian next to whom he awoke the next morning are lost to historians. Wikileaks has it. They’re quite prepared to release it to the public. ‘I condone oases,’ the Indian, with his morning breath, spoke to the technician’s cheek. ‘So do I!’ the technician cried, sitting up. ‘I have been saved from the doctrine.’ ‘I have also been saved by the doctrine.’ ‘FROM the doctrine. FROM the doctrine.’ ‘So have I! So have I!’ ‘You ignorant tit,’ said the Indian, and turned over and began snoring. The technician recorded his snores. This recording, like the irony of the embattled clean machine, though quite lost to history, is not lost to us.

We cater to the hunted. Call us at 0800-5556655. Ask for Jenny.

Friday, January 7, 2011


it was a highly revealing kick in the head
a slow burn that from the very beginning showed a lot of promise
it was like the creeping smile of somebody incrementally ashamed of fluoride
the trickle was definitely taking over
and you thought the feat of parallel parking on the event horizon was impressive?

so the headache says dinner is served
to see this brain is like discovering the remains of a carousel, a birthday party mourned meticulously for a week
and if the sky wouldn’t do it, try DIY asphyxiation
let out the air using your own wits
every human sense rewards a clever, resourceful person
flesh moths wouldn’t dismantle mold on your eyeballs, or they would, but if they don’t, go ahead and do it yourself

the saddest moment in my life was seeing my dad work on his boat
it was the longest I’d ever been in a game of Basement Eschaton
a boat can be pressed against traffic signs, the most humiliating situation a boat can ever find itself in
a view from the small hump on the Great Dane’s nose 
that state of the art forgetful relevance

I didn’t write in my suicide note what exactly preceded the strange hiccup before death
I neglected to mention the thing in my head: a deadweight tune
perhaps I was too busy mentioning the sawdust vibrator the radio said Snooki had been retrofitted with, and how I’d been listening to that while writing my note, wondering if she was made of wood after all
it made sense for the vibrator to then be of sawdust
wasted nearly four paragraphs on that

anyway, I don’t know why I said ‘good doggy’ to the noose hanging from the beam on the ceiling
why the hell did I pat it in that way, too?
but there are forces out there that go out of their way to try and forge sense from death
literature possesses certain ears that can only tolerate a feral reading of itself
plugged with desperation berries
little hairs that effect a gasmask cleanse

Thursday, January 6, 2011


how to deal with the beautiful explosions of mumps
why did it have to be recycled as Axe body spray
who would give you the opportunity to say all the right things
why is rotten flesh so narcissistic
after how long in the oven before it’s a new IQ
what on earth is on the database
before whom did you get home, and what did it prevent from happening
what was compiled by shyness
what is so great about contrasting palm trees
by whom and for what reason have I been asked to speak to a professional food photographer
how was a club sandwich used to justify the guilty party’s actions
we used to draw what on what


i am quite fond of mercurochrome
i am convinced by it that i see the world differently 
that is nice of it
my feet are estranged from their blue connections to my liver
i get sympathy from redheads regarding this issue
i am charlie whitenuts
yeah, i have seen what else too much of a good thing may drive charlie whitenuts to eviscerate
don’t be blinded by what flares up over the mannequin’s shoulder
the mannequin’s arm was broken by a cheap feeling
it caused a blinding spark
my knuckles get wart hungry near something so beautiful
i like deformed pencil eyebrows


surely avoidable yogurt
mixes with disdain for sunrise
down on your fizzy drink airconditioner
or read and believe
deeply trust in etc
karaoke eschatology
oh but the bath thugs –
they of the disgusting brain ridge
washing hands in
honor of witch
for I got Starbucks cholera
the toilet paper cool of energy drink
sacrificial lobsters
reading entrails of pajamas
your bright future’s
small appearance
you learn to bite the snorkel
the snorkel mouse and you
share skills and size
then for the rest of twitching twilight:
furniture fatigue
beat gravely ill astro autism
thrive dug up Eskimo

Wednesday, January 5, 2011


Man’s creation enjoyed the rib of augmented reality
when all sea-dwelling creatures sported a tuna haircut
when fish tank borders were cozily oppressive
with irrepressible neck ties deer made terrific sounds
Man wandered into a coconut settlement, armed with pencil nunchucks and pants-dropping calculators
he almost died of swearing too much
the emoticons on the calculator were very primitive
Eve’s abortion paraphernalia in a leather pouch was very flashy
the amphibious blow torch swims to offspring’s demise
Satan was still a young cad and up-and-coming inventor of billboards
bus station fur coat, itinerant ferret that needed its teeth cleaned
gorilla cocaine like urn splatter
he could handpick his own snafus
a miraculous pistachio appeared at the settlement of yellow hairy noggins in which mathematics and Wagner argued over how it was possible to be pummeled by a taint
it didn’t have much to say
‘fat heads. fatty heads. fat heads. fatty heads.’ that was all

Tuesday, January 4, 2011


what makes the supernova’s biggest weakness so remarkable?
it cannot shoot well, with this weakness, so in that sense, like a brass bazooka, it looks good only on a cabin wall
that area’s polite synapse

too grand can be too dirty, like plastic masks on children, salad catheters, mutilation poker, or sexed-up hepatitis, and really it’s not meant for tupperware, or perhaps it is
as small a utility as bumper stickers that demoralize and effectively drive the driver of the car behind to suicide with prissy statements like YOU SUCK

it struck me while sitting on my rustic porch one day, listening to the birds, the absence of cars, some corn boiling on the gas stove, what a fine, flat line forms when you synchronize two different kinds of buzzing
hiss bubble hiss bubble hiss: what a priceless relationship!

richard branson’s nazi porn aims to accomplish just that, in a sense
at the hot resort
interrupting a bar mitzvah
then moving the show to thailand
there interrupting a perfectly droll episode of lost
in a stroke of sheer marketing genius, the scoundrel accused his mother of plotting a smear campaign against him with a personal robot that craftily pulled info on her son’s intimate bathroom rituals
the counterplot – i.e. the bitchy whining and fussing he kicked up – according to forbes increased his net worth tenfold 

i’d like to say upfront and with the straightest face musterable that the best place to hide is in a shrink-wrap aircraft carrier: don’t get caught in the arid desert outside it
ask the affluent
they’re always in the wrong place at the wrong time

at the heart of every deductive power, there’s a little desk at which sits an embonpoint girl with a ledger
every subtraction she makes from the deductive power she adds to the sherlock holmes fund for emotional well-being
really, young lady?
will an emotive Sherlock, one that issues great blasts of raw, lachrymal emotion at the sight of every suspiciously laid glove, riffled bedsheet, unaccounted-for dust mote, too-neat boudoir – not to mention every suspiciously grisly and unnecessarily gut-strewn murder scene – really be helpful to the case?

there no longer is any pleasure in wagging one’s finger at personal robot slaves

Monday, January 3, 2011


seen in stages of intensity through a wind-up monocle 
the most tasteful bacterial infection

roaming Zeitgeist action figures
cocktail party killer on the prowl
a clue: lost treadmill headphones in mohair rug
his self-indulgent gurgling
the least likely kickstarter of world peace

natural haircolor landfill
to which the cliff diving bumblebee
adds with a splash

trouble-free floating and the wearing
of thick prescription glasses join forces at last
veneration of mediocrity: secret to success
dies with squished bug in big book

spanish fly nuclear sites visited
at precisely calculated intervals
by foppish curators and collectors

can’t get far in this dog-bite hyundai
the cube-dicked casualty of a toaster
ravioli carrycase greater than salesman’s composite parts
ineffectual applier/remover of 69er grime


penthouse alarm like good-morning quarrel
things the rural gnat will never hear
with its papaya hearing aid
manure enclosed superconductor surprising the vulgar horse
what’s overheard remains relevant

the incredibles can unwrinkle exhaustion
they’ve never seen a homegrown placenta before
nor a gnome on a snowboard
‘can bon jovi save your life?’
holly hunter asks, without irony


It’s possible to suffer glaucoma before suffering tunnel vision, to be insect-like but orotund, to be a WWI helmet with stick legs. Perhaps your wife calls the symptom of your condition the ‘ladybug blindspot.’

Dressed like a farmer and drinking like a frog – lips and chin always hovering perpendicular to the glass’s rim. She said ‘drink the frog’ when she meant ‘drink LIKE a frog.’ It was a shorter portrayal, containing the same meaning and immediately qualifying as the best thing you can offer someone you know very well: a cryptic utterance that rings true only to him or her.

In the closet stands a ready-to-wear cone of tear gas he always puts on before going out, but even before not going out, sometimes worn even before putting on his conventional farmer’s clothes.

It’s possible that only he thinks his trout farm can be seen from space, and that its shape symbolizes the human capacity for heavy metal; with that guitar one can leverage post-coital tristesse any time. Verily, a small and brittle enough labyrinth – no matter how complex – can be bulldozed by one’s tongue. 

You don’t have to see around corners the way a panda’s continental eyerings can. In space you can hear the clam’s inner monologue. Sometimes you cannot see the great shimmering guitar. Eye-full of gas, throbbing with the solemn emotion of a sprinkler. Eye opener deployed by large, rectangular distance. 

Sunday, January 2, 2011


ask the end of the world to do its fire cow impression
enlightening, that doomsday gestalt on the horizon –
spooky mimicry of bovine protagonist of dairy comic
more interesting to me is the blurring of lines between the Stalin and the Chupacabra Tellytubbies – it breathes new life into the inanity of my bacon eggs benedict

Miyagi is getting weaker, napping with pingpong paddle together on the couch; I can write all of my karate dreams on my forehead now

the examiner is only an impresario, his luminous legacy forever imposing the sounds of sanitation
but all strangely hued, none tactile, like the roots of the Twilight Zone –
and none really coming from anywhere, none really sticking their long appendages in anywhere

lampshades on your eardrums – hoping restored vision will bring you, us, the whole expedition party, back to earth
I left my jacket in the psych ward –
the debate team huddling around it was very sensuous –
made you horny and nostalgic just by listening to them

‘when you’re wanted for murder and uncollected garbage –
when the underside of each driveway brick is a raunchy video –
is it instead ethical to –
remove its sixteen teeth?
ALL of its sixteen teeth?’

hilariously missing the point of consensual dentistry
the apocalypse does not lend its sinuses to just anybody
you can’t just rent it like a town hall

Saturday, January 1, 2011


Definitely among the things I don’t want to remember is the glowing hoof print, Tesla’s interpretation of reflexology. And among the things I dread most is the resurgence of the sprain, that web of synchronized swimming brushstrokes – strung over the glowing hoof print.

Known in advertising and in government as PepsiCo’s ‘empathy,’ most people ignored the sprain. Its unvarnished hooks and chains and pulleys – unmasked like a grinning radiator – but helmet-mounted – ready to ram a wall.

The warm friction of a reasonable diet was unceremoniously forfeited, so that it became quite popular to wear braces. Naturally, the trend was known as ‘polio chic.’ And the spectacle of dragging oneself through the pileup of cycling caps on every street corner was not very demeaning.

The trapeze is stupid. The broken fire hydrant is the unattainable excellent water pistol. That was simply how we rolled in those days.

At the police station, the out of control ukulele managed to wrest the jewels of concept art from the clutches of plastic cutlery. For in concept art there were many, many banned words, all hunched in cages of strobe light and making their mark as endangered species.

The blender finally received pardon for pulling down the creeping hand of Hausmann’s American gorilla. With that, the chandelier promptly stopped levitating in the living room. And my favorite machete was covered in house paint. Complacent, haughty, but forced to feel rejected: thus was defined the stifling life of a Freemason. A postcard surplus on a rickety stand outside the Christian Science building. With things jumping up and down under the scab.

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